Emotional Stings
by Azora1
Summary: Janet Pym thinks about last night and makes up with her husband. Set in the past. Adult situations... read at your own risk.


Title:  Emotional Stings

Author:  Azora

Setting:  **Universe of _The Ultimates_, pre Giant-Man formula, pre team (maybe a year in the past or so?)**

Disclaimer:  Marvel owns them, Millar does a _wonderful_ job writing them… I'm just adding to his genius.

Summary:  Janet Pym muses about last night and makes up with her husband

Rating:  R for recalled violence and a sexual situation… READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Warnings:  NOT FOR CHILDREN!  This story is a description of a very dysfunctional relationship and there is a sex scene at the end… so don't go any further if this may offend you.

You may want to skip it until you've read issue #6 as well.

Notes are at the bottom: they are extensive, but they may shine a little light on the story when you are finished.

Sometimes I hate working with my husband.

Today is one of those times.  I'm trying to smile and pretend like everything is all right, and he's walking around sulking like a child.  What's he have to be upset about anyway?  No one can see he had a bloody nose last night, but I've had to explain over and over again how I fattened my bottom lip by "running in to a door".  And I do it, with that sincere smile on my face, just like everything is okay.  Everything is fucking far from okay.  It's shit on ice.  But at least I'm bucking up and acting somewhat normal.

God, if only he would stop acting like such a baby.

I've never told anyone, and I never will.  Our work keeps me busy; the only people I converse with, besides Hank, are the research assistants here.  And I won't bring this to work anyway.  It's not any of their business.  It needs to stay in our home where it began.  

Unfortunately, people aren't stupid.  With Hank moping around like his dog died, I'm sure someone's figured out what's going on.  One of the office girls gave me a look today, pity like a sign on her face.

It's a vicious cycle, our fights, and I'll bet I could set a clock by them.  His moods go in a big circle over about a month.  I'm pretty sure Hank's bipolar.  He self-diagnosed himself as depressed and wrote his own prescription.  The Prozac helps with the depression but does nothing for the mania.  So now instead of highs, lows, and middles, he has middles and extreme highs.  I'll wake up in the night sometimes to find him sitting in front of his computer, typing like a demon, bouncing in his chair like an excited three year old. 

The worst part is that he does his best thinking in this state.   His neurons are firing so fast he _becomes_ genius.  The epitome of brilliance.  Answers to all his problems come flooding out of his brain so fast he can barely speak.  It's exciting to watch.  How can I ask him to give up his intelligence just so our personal life can balance out?  It seems too much to ask.  Besides, I honestly love the highs.  That's when he takes care of me.  Giddy like a kid, he'll pick me up by my waist and swing me around, giving me that toothy grin I can't dare deny, and tell me how much he loves me.

It's when he comes down from the highs that the problems begin.  That's when the little things start to bother him.  Irritable and short tempered, he almost _picks_ the fights with me. 

Don't get me wrong, it doesn't happen every month.  We're not _that _bad.  It's only gotten really ugly once or twice.  We argue, yell, whatever, but he hardly ever hits me.  And he always says he's sorry.

But I'm as guilty as he is.  I have a little bit of a temper.  Okay, a huge temper.  I don't hold back when something pisses me off.  We're like fire and fire, Hank and I.  We just keep fueling each other until one of us goes overboard.  And it's equally him or me.  I'll bet I've hit him just as often as he's hit me.  Does that make it okay?  Probably not.  But I know how we get and I keep it up anyway.  Really, it's my fault.  I know he lacks the self-control to stop.  It's part of his illness.  I should learn to keep my mouth shut.

I don't want to feel bad about this.  I want everything to be okay.  I keep telling myself this is the bottom and he'll cycle back up soon.  Then I'll have my Hank back, and everything will be okay.

But I don't know how many more of the bottoms I can stand.

It wasn't always like this.  The depression was always there, but it was small, less harsh.  Maybe the excitement and the newness of the relationship helped him.  God, we were so much fun.  Making out in the car, lunchtime romps at his place.  We couldn't keep our hands off each other.

I know it's normal for relationships to slow down.  It's a good thing, right?  They become more comfortable, like a worn pair of jeans. And all couples have disagreements.  

I don't remember when we crossed the line.  More than a year ago.  Hell, the line's two interstate exits back now.  We disagreed about something.  It shifted to quarreling, then to screaming.  He slapped me on the cheek.

I kicked him in the balls.  He blackened my eye.

Then we apologized, we both cried, said it would never happen again.  And it didn't for a long time.  But it's almost like once you cross the line, it's easier to do it a second time, to lose your self-control.    

But today, it wasn't the lip that was getting to me.  It was the words.  Sometimes I think Hank and I have perfected the art of verbal degradation.  It's like a game to see how shitty you can make each other feel.

Repulsive.  Hank said I was repulsive.  The word burns red in my mind.  Do I really disgust my own husband?  Or is this just another barb to make me hurt as bad as he does?

I put my elbows on my desk and cover my face with my hands, just for an instant, mentally telling myself not to cry.  Not now.  Not at work.  I run my hands through my hair and jump out of my seat.  I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away.  I barely make it to the bathroom before the tears start.  Hank, what are we doing?

There's a little knock at the door.  Hank's little knock.  "Jan?"

I sigh.  I try to sniffle quietly and wipe away the tears.  Glance in the mirror.  Just fine, minus the fat lip.  I'm one of those lucky women that can cry and still look like a million bucks.

I open the door a crack.  "What do you want?" I whisper, looking down the hall for eavesdroppers.

He pushes the door open gently and steps in the little room.  Puppy dog eyes.  Is he ready to make up already?

He's sucking on a Lifesaver, clicking it against his teeth.  I know the Prozac dries out his mouth, but Christ, I hate that clicking noise.  I must have frowned without meaning to, because he spits the candy out in to the trashcan.

"Jan…" he begins.  

I put a hand up.  "Just stop.  We can't keep doing this.  You can't do this.  It's just not right.  You can't hit women."

"You hit me too, Jan."  Not mad.  Just stating the fact.

"So?"  Thanks for reminding me.  I consciously push the anger down.  "That doesn't make it right.  Normal people don't do this, Hank. We've got to stop.  Promise me you'll try to stop."

He nods.  "I promise."

He is so agreeable now.  "That's what we said last time.  What makes this time any different?"

He sighs, running his hands through his hair.  "What do you want from me, Jan, a signed letter?  I said I promise."  His voice is rising, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.  I don't want him to get upset again.  

"I just want to mean it this time," I say quietly, eyes on my feet.

He steps closer, hands reaching out for my waist, and I let him.  

I can't look him in the eyes.  "I'm sorry."  

"I'm sorry, too."  He pulls me in a little, hands through my hair, kissing my forehead, my cheeks.  "I'm so sorry, Jan.  I'm so sorry."  

Strong hands slide down my arms, around my back, under the bottom of my shirt.  Slow circles.  Oh, so that's what this is about.  Make up sex in the bathroom?  No way, huh uh.  This is _too_ messed up.

But then I look up into his eyes, and I'm lost.  Bluish green pools, bright with unwept tears, reflecting his twisted insides, his pain, his anguish at this mess.  His real apology is right here in these gorgeous eyes, the ones I fell in love with.  So I let him pull me up as he bends down and kisses me.

Warm lips, full of passion, it hurts and feels so good and I can't help it, I'm crying and I'm kissing him like I can't stop, devouring his lips with my own, tasting minty candy and the salt from my tears in our mouths.  Or maybe his tears.  Is he crying too?  

"Show me," I say against his lips.  "Show me I'm not repulsive."

My neck is starting to hurt a little, straining to kiss him, up on my tiptoes.  I don't know if he knows, but he picks me up and sits me down on the sink.  He moves his lips down to my neck, his shadow-beard grazing my skin, making me shiver, to that little hollow spot right between my throat and my shoulder, that one little spot he thinks of as his own.  Hands on my breasts.  I moan a little.  I can't help it.  He knows how to get to me, how to make every touch send electricity right to my brain.  

I wrap my legs around him and pull him against me, hard in his jeans, and I grind against him.  He groans and shoves me back against the mirror.  Hard.  I hope no one heard that.  He locks eyes with me and the shame is gone, their color darker, swimming green.  All passion.  All fire.  Hands run through my hair as he kisses me again, so hard, so hard.

This has to be quick.  I want it to be quick.  I kick off my sandals as he unzips my jeans, pulling my panties off with them.  He unzips his own pants and drops them.  He grabs me around the waist and pushes himself inside me.

Fire, like liquid fire as he thrusts against me.  Passion incarnate.  His face is buried in my neck again and I can smell him, like shampoo and soap, so Hank.  I press my lips against his earlobe and draw it into my mouth, eliciting a little moan against my neck.  I squeeze my eyes shut, my arms tight around his neck.  "Harder, Hank," I squeak out.  "Harder."

He obliges, and I can't concentrate on anything but the feeling.  "Yes, yes.  Just like that."  Rhythm.  This was always good.  Things get shitty, but we always have this.  Always this.

"Hank," I moan.  I press my lips against his ear, knowing what he needs to hear.  "You're so big…god, you're so big."

He comes with a thrust deep inside me, throbbing, and my own orgasm hits me like a shock, pleasure exploding in my head, little noises I can't control in Hank's ear, convulsing against him.  Tensed, then relaxed, he unburies his face from my neck and pulls his fingers off my ass.  Probably left bruises.  I don't care.  So good, so good.  Wonderful. Three words:  best sex ever.  

His sandy hair is sticking to his forehead, shimmering with a sheen of sweat.  The passion is gone from his face.  Both good and bad, gone.  Just plain old Hank.  I brush the hair back from his forehead and give him a little smile.  Awkward.  Always an awkward moment when the fire is gone.  Sometimes it seems all we have is the fire.

I climb down from the sink, a little unsteady on my feet, and pull my jeans back on.  I don't know what to say.  I don't think he does either, because he's very intent on washing his hands and his face.  I wish I could do that.  My make-up must be seriously screwed up now but I can't just wipe it all off.  I'll fix it at my desk.

I glance in the mirror.  Yep, screwed up.  Mascara rings around my eyes. Plus both of my lips are swollen now.  Well, at least they match.

We leave the bathroom together, silent, Hank's hand at the small of my back.  I lean towards him, head against his side, where it fits like a key.  Right here.  This is where I belong.

I move away from him when we get to my desk and he gives me a playful swat on the ass, his face shining with his trademark Hank Pym grin.  Irresistible.  I smirk back.  So much nicer when we're flirting.  

"Watch it, Pym."

He gives me a little salute.  "Yes, Mrs. Pym."

And just like that, everything's better.  I shove all my doubts and insecurities to the back of my mind.  Forget.  Just forget.  Better that you forget.

But remember to try harder next time.  Next time I'll control my temper.  Next time I won't let it get out of control.

_Notes:_

_This is not what I expected to come out when I began this story.  I just felt like writing a little perspective on the current Pym situation but it somehow turned into this.  I don't usually write sexual situations into stories.  I feel that what goes on in the bedroom can be alluded to nicely without having to go there.  But I was compelled.  It shows another side to their dysfunction, and I think it adds to the story. _

_As for the graphicness, Hank and Jan seem to be very passionate people… about work, life, everything.  It isn't hard to imagine they're passionate in the bedroom too.  As for the situation, lots of couples need that intimacy after a big blow-up fight to make themselves feel loved again.  _

_I am in no way trying to glorify their relationship.  It's obvious they love each other, but their marriage is dysfunctional, good sex and all.  It's very possible to love someone but have a bad relationship.  But lots of people tend to try and forget about what's occurred and move on… especially when their significant other is the only thing they have in their life.  Hank and Jan probably don't have many friends.  Situations like this need to be addressed or the relationship needs to end, love or no love.  Otherwise things boil until something like the situation in #6 occurs._

_And remember, these are Jan's thoughts.  This is how she sees things.  She's not really to blame.  They're both in the wrong, but you don't hit women.  Hank's probably 9 inches taller than she is… I'm sure he hits much harder than she does._

_The bipolar thing:  I did not make this up.  There are theories about the correlation between mental illness and genius.  Think of Van Gogh and Edgar Allen Poe.  It just seems to fit Hank to a "T".  Remember him in issue two, going on about all the ideas in his head?  Prozac won't completely help someone with manic depression (bipolar disorder) as it is only an anti-depressant.  Hank would need to be on a mood stabilizing drug to feel completely normal, but it would probably wipe out most of his creative ability.  Messed up, isn't it?  Would you give up genius to have emotional stability in your life?  It's a difficult choice, which is why many bipolars end up being substance abusers, self medicating themselves to even out the highs and lows._


End file.
